


red red red

by ghoulfern



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Letters, Mutual Pining, Not too heavy, Pining, Post-War, Reminiscing, Sweet, more focused on relationships, not too plot centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoulfern/pseuds/ghoulfern
Summary: Dear George,I miss you. Dearly, I miss you. The house is so horribly quiet without you here.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/George Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 46





	1. a gentle hum

_May 29 2002_

_Dear George,_

_I don't quite know how to begin this letter._

_Should I get the most important bit out of the way first and go from there? Alright, then._ _What's your favorite flavor pie? Molly refuses to tell me for some reason. I wanted to make it yesterday, after I had that dream about you._

_Oh!-- Of course, sorry. I forget sometimes that you can't read my mind. I had a dream about you the other night._ _It was one of those half-dreams, the early morning ones that are really soft and strange. I couldn't help but pick up a quill and start writing to you as soon as I woke up, but I ended up spilling a full pot of ink all over the parchment, so I had to wait until today, when I could go pick up more parchment... anyway. Reply with your favorite flavor pie, for my sanity?_

_Going out today was... odd. I'm still not used to how everyone looks at me. They all know my name out there, these strangers, and I don't know any of them._ _It's been a day shy of four years now, since the war. I feel like I haven't changed at all. Do you ever feel that way, George?_

_I spend most of my time sleeping, and reading, of course. I get by. But I'm quickly running out of things interesting enough to keep my attention._

_And I wonder where you are, you know. Nearly every day._

_As for any updates... Harry got the Auror job, if you didn't hear. Quite an obvious path for him. Ronald works alongside him. They remind me of some sort of detective duo from Muggle television._

~~_Sorry, actually. I don't want to talk about them._ ~~

_I do hope Dacus can find you. He's my owl. About a year old now, and cleverer than me by leagues, if you'll believe it._ _And even if he can't find you, I'll keep writing. I feel like it's my only option to keep myself afloat. Maybe it could keep you afloat too._

_Best,_

_Hermione Granger_

* * *

_June 15 2002_

_George,_

_Dacus arrived early this morning with nothing for me, which didn't come as any real surprise. It still frightened me._

_But... someone got the letter. It wasn't attached to his leg when he came back to me; that's my impenetrable defense. I can only hope that it was you who read it._

_So! From now on and perhaps against my better judgement (who's to say if it even exists these days), I shall presume you to be alive and well, receiving my letters and simply choosing not to reply for whatever reason. It won't be the first time that I stick my nose where it doesn't belong, as Severus would so elegantly put it (God rest his soul)._

_Anyway, I've taken up knitting. That's how dire it's gotten. You'd get a real kick out of me, snuggled up in my horrendously ugly handmade sweaters, knitting scarf after scarf for Ginny. She loses them often, you know, especially because she wears them during practice whenever it's cold._

_She's brilliant at it, though. I hope you get to catch some of her Quidditch games, from wherever you are._

_Best,_

_Hermione_

* * *

_June 28 2002_

_George,_

_I_ _haven't told Molly that I'm writing to you. I don't think it would go well. I haven't told anyone else, either. It feels like a secret I'm keeping._

 _I know you're reading these, somehow. I know you're out there, I'm almost certain of it. Someone like you doesn't just disappear._ ~~_Maybe it's just me, convincing myself that I'm writing to anyone but a ghost, but I prefer to think I'm right._~~

_Lately I can't keep my last memory of you out of my head._

_I was there when you left. That night, two years ago, now? I watched you go._

_I had come down the stairs at just the wrong time, paused long enough to hear you walking out. "I've never had my own life", that's what you said, I think, something like it. You said you had to go find what was missing. And then you left._

_I don't remember hearing Molly after that, I don't know if she cried, or if she called for me or Arthur or Gin. I was too busy, spiraling in my own way. My eyes went a little dizzy and I had to sit down on the bottom stair. I don't know what happened to me in that moment. Everyone was leaving, maybe that's how I felt. Everyone but me was making the decision to move on._

_And... you were the last friend I had. Perhaps the most consistent person in my life. Always popping your head into the room to ask what I was up to. Peering over my shoulder to see what I was reading. It didn't matter where we were-- Hogwarts, the Burrow, that bewitched tent we had at the World Cup. You were always there nearby, nosy as ever, and always smiling._ _We didn't know each other that well at Hogwarts, not past fleeting grins and laughter and occasional conversation. But you still seemed to hear_ _me, whenever you were around. Even when I had run out of things to say. I never understood it; I still don't._

_Sorry. ~~I don't mean to~~ I didn't mean to talk so much, about myself, about you. I kind of want to scribble all of this nonsense out. Or crumple up the paper and give up completely on this entire endeavor. _

_No. I'll send it._

_If I feel embarrassed afterward, then that means you must be out there, reading my words. Getting angry at me or laughing at me or anything, really. Anything at all would be good. And if not, well. At least I finally wrote this all out somewhere._

_Hermione_

_P.S.: I ended up making you an apple pie. Figured it was the safest bet. It turned out well enough! Arthur ate most of it... don't tell your mum._

* * *

July hits hard and balmy. Hermione watches the heat rise from the front drive, feeling detached and lethargic. She's been waiting for George to reply to her for what feels like years. Staying up all night listening for the ruffle of owl feathers. She even dreams about George showing up on the front step to tell her that he's come back to stay. 

She wakes up every day without a response. It should make her sadder, but instead it makes her angry. She's determined to find him, to get him to say something back. If she keeps trying, then she doesn't have to think about any alternative. 

She knows that focusing all her energy on George might be unhealthy for her. She can hardly make it through a single book without wanting to fall asleep, but struggles through the night to go to bed. She's never experienced anything like this before, this cascading loneliness that won't let go of her. She doesn't know quite how to fight it.

As she shakily rolls up her fourth letter, she wonders if she's going completely mad. If she's placing all of her hope into an empty vessel. If she will stay here for years and years more, never moving or progressing in any way. 

She grits her teeth and ties the letter to Dacus' leg. 

"Off you go," she says sharply, and the owl shoots her a wounded look before flying out the window and into the vast, bright sky. She watches until he is completely out of sight, and then she sits on the floor, and she cries into her hands. 

* * *

_July 2 2002_

_George,_

_I feel like a ghost, haunting this place, waiting for everyone to come back. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore, so I write to you. It makes me feel removed from it all. Like I'm whispering to you through the library shelves, waiting for the rustle of papers, for your voice to answer me amidst the silence._

_Maybe it's time for me to be a bit more honest._

_I miss you. Dearly, I miss you. This house is so horribly quiet without you here. I am, too. I never noticed before just how silent these halls can become, just how trapped one can feel even amidst all of the comfort and familiarity. I've barely spoken in the past few months, something that I try not to think about. But I know that if you were here, I wouldn't be able to stop talking._

_You used to help me wash the dishes, do you remember? You marveled at it like something completely unfathomable. It delighted me. Whenever I tell Ron about Muggle things, he frowns, acts horrified, and Harry, of course, knows about all of it, is never impressed by it._

_But you, you reveled in it alongside me. You wanted to know everything. Every insignificance, every bore. Your face would brighten in the wake of it. A truer magic than anything we can create._

_I dumped soap all over your hands and watched you make a mess of the suds. You were like a boy, grinning and batting bubbles at my hair. It was hypnotizing, seeing you so giddy._

_When Molly walked into the kitchen and saw us drenched in dishwater, she smiled. A real smile, the first one I'd seen from her in a long while, and I smiled back._ _But when I turned to face you again, you weren't watching her. You were watching me. And you looked so sad._

_Maybe you knew then that you were going to leave._

_I should wrap this up, your mum's calling for dinner._

_Wh_ _erever you ended up, I do hope you're fond of it. Perhaps Peru? You seem like the type for mountains._

_Hermione_


	2. how do we get to the sky?

_July 20 2002_

_George,_

_Your father has taken to asking me questions again. I’d thought he had exhausted my knowledge of the Muggle world, but I was wrong. Today he asked me about cameras, which is of course interesting, because cameras do exist in the Wizarding world-- at first I couldn’t understand why he was so perplexed. He shook his head when I mentioned that, though. He said, ‘no, no. The ones that spit out the photograph, straight from the camera!’ _

_Polaroids. My father had one he’d take on holiday with us_. _They’re vexing contraptions, really, hard to explain. They do indeed print the picture out of the camera-- but onto film._ _And when the image pops out, you have to wait for it to develop fully onto the film. Preferably, of course, in darkness, or else they could turn out faded, or not turn out at all. I don’t totally understand it, frankly; I don’t think most Muggles do._

_I hope my explanation was somewhat helpful._

_Anyway, I forgot how much I loved that camera. I found myself taking pictures so often, of everything. I always liked to touch the buttons, make the light flash. It was such a purposeful sequence of events. I’d take my photo and hurry off somewhere quiet and shadowed, switch the light off, wait for my treasure to develop there in the dark. Hunched and eager. It was a toss up as to who would find me first. Usually my mum. Dad never got mad at me for using up his film. I think he liked that I had found something that made me happy._

_I think about my parents often. It's hard not to, of course. But today I couldn't get my mind off of them at all._

~~_Anyway, I didn’t mean to_ ~~

_I think I might call Harry later this week. He’s best at those sorts of matters… been coaching me through the loss, whatever you would call it. Well, he was._

_I think it would be good for me to reconnect with him. I’m getting too lost in my thoughts lately. Spiraling, that’s what my mum would say, that's what we call it._ _She could recognize my anxieties before I even felt them bloom to life within me._

_One last note-- I made another pie this week… blueberry, if you’re wondering. Maybe that one is your favorite? I can figure it out by process of elimination, a grand reveal of sorts. I feel like you would enjoy that idea._

_Sorry for the smudge, I was eating as I wrote this._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

* * *

Hermione holds the rolled up letter in her hands for a long moment, contemplating it. Dacus watches her patiently from his cage, his eyes hooded and a bit tired. She tucks the letter into the bottom of his cage and shrugs at him. 

“Tomorrow morning,” she whispers, before creeping back out of the living room and toward the stairs. She notes the pleasant ruffle of feathers behind her as Dacus settles for sleep, and she smiles. 

The attic room where she stays is lit up with moonlight. She crosses over to the window and cracks it open to let the air in. 

It’s been easy, these past four years, scarily easy, for her to lose track of her friends, and for them to lose track of her. Harry and Ron, they’ve been wrapped up in one another. Their work goes hand in hand, they live in the same flat…. It’s simple for them. Ginny, she’s always moving, always striving for a better goal. Surrounded constantly by teammates. _Simple_. 

Not for Hermione. She’s still here at the Burrow, _entirely hopeless,_ she thinks bitterly. She’d had a job, a couple years back, at a local bookstore, down in the village. It’d been nice work, relaxing. Exactly where she needed to be. But she quit last year. She doesn’t like to think about that stretch of time afterward. She doesn’t like to see herself there. 

She sits down on her bed, bites her lip. It’s eleven at night, late for most. Not for her.

There’s a small fireplace up here, crumbling but functional, and a tiny urn of Floo powder on the mantel. She eyes the scene uneasily for a moment. Will Harry be angry at her if she wakes him up?

And then a fire she’s been missing flares up suddenly in her belly and she says aloud and to no one, “who bloody _cares._ ”

Before she knows it, she’s lighting the fireplace, tossing an angry fistful of powder into the fire, and sticking her head directly into the embers. 

It takes a moment for anything at all to focus, and then the ghostly image of an unfamiliar room appears. The colors seep in slowly, and Hermione blinks, dazed. Then--

“Oi, what in the _bloody shite_ is tha--”

“ _Mione?_ ”

There is the sound of tumbling objects, or bodies, and suddenly Harry’s face is in her view, his neck craning. “Hermione, what-- are you--” He frowns at her, his eyebrows knitting together. He’s got both hands planted on the carpet and he’s leaning so close to her through the fireplace that she feels a bit ill. She tries to say something reassuring and formal, but when she opens her mouth all she can muster is, “I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.” She can feel tears in her eyes, suddenly. “I’m sorry,” she says again, quietly. A rush of emotion butts up against the backs of her teeth, and she clenches her jaw around it. It aches.

Harry opens his mouth, then shuts it. “Okay, um--” He turns his face away from the fire, from her. “Ron, get the kettle on,” he says, before turning back to her. She can hear Ron grumbling something in the background. “You best just come over, Mione. Easier.” Harry smiles.

Quickly, she extracts herself from the fireplace and reaches again for the Floo powder. Her heart’s beating rather rapidly--she hasn’t seen their new flat yet, hasn’t seen either of them in months…

With finality, she stands, tosses the powder into the fireplace once more, and says as confidently as she can, “Harry Potter’s flat!”

She arrives in a heap, but the two men are at her side in an instant, lifting her gently onto the couch. She’d forgotten that you’re not _technically_ supposed to use the Floo Network if you’re incredibly sleep-deprived. She blinks away her starry vision to see Harry and Ron both kneeling in front of her with matching expressions of concern. 

“Are you alright?” Ron exclaims, frowning judgmentally, as he is wont to do. Harry elbows him sharply in the gut, and he recoils. “ _Ouch!_ ”

Harry turns back to Hermione. “He just means that you look a bit… ill.”

“Oh, and you think _that_ was a more polite thing to say?” Ron interjects with a snort. 

“Well, I am a bit _ill_ ,” Hermione spits out, entirely without meaning to, and both Harry and Ron turn to stare at her, dumbfounded. She touches her fingers to her mouth. “I mean,” she whispers, lifting her hand a little, “I’m... not doing okay.” She clears her throat, sets her shaking hands in her lap. Harry watches her for a long moment before turning to Ron and waving him away. 

Ron gives Harry’s gesture a look of disgust, but stands, anyway, and heads to the kitchen without another word. Hermione marvels at this small interaction, but it’s scrubbed from her head as soon as Harry touches her knee. 

“We haven’t heard from you,” he says, and again, the anger alights within her. 

“You haven’t heard from _me_?” she repeats, caustically. Some of the color drains from Harry’s face. “I haven’t _bloody heard from you!”_

“Sounds like you’re doing well in there, Harry,” Ron calls cheerily from the kitchen. “I’ll take my time in here.”

“We’ve--” Harry cringes and looks away from her, and for a moment she feels guilty for being so angry at him. “We’ve all been communicating badly, I think,” he says, gently. “I haven’t talked to anyone besides Ron lately. And we haven’t found the time to visit at all this summer…” 

Hermione watches as Harry lets out a long breath and runs a hand through his hair. He looks just as tired as she feels. He’s just a bit better at hiding it. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispers, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have invited myself here just to yell at you. It... wasn't my intention."

Harry looks up at her, smiles softly. “We’ve all been left pretty broken, haven’t we?” he murmurs. For a split second, his expression falters, and they are nothing more than two lost souls, reaching out for one another through the foggy ether of grief.

Ron comes loudly and suddenly back into the living room, jarring the two of them out of their individual reveries. He's holding a tray with various mis-matching teacups balanced haphazardly upon it, and Hermione knows exactly what will happen before it does. He sets the tray down too hard on the coffee table, and the teacups teeter and tumble and spill. But then, frustrated, Ron takes out his wand and whisks the mess back into the cups. Hermione blinks. He picks up a cup that’s painted a delicate blue, and he sits back down beside Harry as if nothing at all has happened. At least he's gotten quieter about his messes, then. Can't say she's not impressed. 

“Done scolding us, are you?” he asks, eying her momentarily before taking a sip of his tea. 

Hermione can't be bothered to shoot him a disdainful look; she's staring blankly at a spot in the carpet, now, wondering how nothing has changed, wondering how she went for so long without them.

"Er... Hermione," Harry says, clearing his throat. "Would you like to stay with us, for a bit?"

She glances up at him, confused. Ron, too, seems briefly perplexed, though it could be argued that that is how his face always looks. "For… the night?" she asks slowly.

Harry chews on his lip, searching her eyes for a moment and shaking his head. "For as long as you'd like," he says softly. 

She stares at him for a long while, running it over and over in her head, and he watches her as she thinks, the familiarity of their touching knees and the caution in his face overwhelming her with gratitude and unrelenting love. How could she have let herself become depraved of this? 

"Okay," she says finally, her heart lifting. "I'll stay."

* * *

_July 25 2002_

_George,_

_I’ve moved house, wouldn't you believe it. Temporarily, of course. But hasn’t the Burrow been temporary, too?_

_It’s Harry and Ron’s flat, by the way, where I’m staying. Which perhaps seems to you a strange thing considering my hesitancy to speak about them at all in my first letter. So:_

_After the War, the two of them almost… shut me out. I didn’t notice it at first, why would I? I was consumed by the aftermath. I couldn’t think of anything at all. It was around a year or so later that I began to pick up on the fact that they were never home, and when they were, they were somewhere I couldn’t find them. It’s a bit like they were catching up, you know. On their friendship, after all that’s happened. Like they were trying to fit in all the time that was soured in our childhood and make it better. It perplexed me why I was no longer included, but I didn’t say anything. They seemed to be happy enough, not miserable like me, so I let it be. It grated at me over the years, honed itself into a blade. I was so bitter for so long._

_A few nights ago, I visited them for the first time in months. And they’re so in love with each other, it hurts me to look at. Not in a bad way, but it hurts that I didn’t see it before now. All of it connects so easily, clicks into place just as it was meant to._

_Harry asked me to move in for a while, and I said yes. Making amends, with them, with myself. I hope it will be good for me._

_Your father isn't pleased that I'm leaving. "Who will I bother about these Muggle inventions? I still have six different models of television in the shed that I have to ask you about!" I told him to write his inquiries to me instead._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

* * *

Hermione awakens the next morning just in time for the sunset, and she sits up, bleary eyes searching for the source of all that light. It's hazy, colors of peony and lavender stretched across the clouds. She sits on the edge of her bed and stares out the window, watching. She imagines George out there somewhere, half asleep over a bowl of porridge, or still sprawled out on his mattress. She wonders if his hair is long or if he's kept it short. Her heart aches with the thought of him, and she doesn't know what to do with that feeling, so she hops out of bed.

Maybe she can start breakfast, get ahead of the day a bit. Something to keep her busy. That's her plan, at least-- until she arrives downstairs to find a letter waiting for her.

* * *

_July 27 2002_

_Dearest Hermione,_

_I say this with the utmost regret, Ms. Granger, but my reply arrives heinously late. My tardiness is something I often struggle with; do forgive me. It has been quite the delight reading your letters, though. Truly._

_You'll still write just as frequently from the lovebird's den, won't you? (Speaking of, it is a marvel to me that you never picked up on that. I, myself, caught them snogging downstairs on many an occasion. Astoundingly graphic.)_

_Looking forward to hearing from you._

_Oh! I am not i_ _n Peru, by the way, and you've not yet made my favorite pie, either. Keep guessing. I'm sure you'll figure it out sooner than anyone else could._

_Yours,_

_George_


	3. blown to bits

The first thing that strikes Hermione is that his handwriting is different than what she’d expected. Many loops and elongated swoops; a tight, eccentric cursive. As she reads, she's consumed all the way through with relief, this bright light from nowhere. She goes through the letter, again and again, and she knows she's never smiled so big. The sunlight streams in through the windows, golden and sweet. 

“What’s that?”

Hermione glances up, startled, to see Ron suddenly beside her, opening the refrigerator. He’s already snacking on an apple, and he’s staring blankly at her. She doesn’t remember hearing him come in, so he must’ve already been there. How had he managed to be so quiet?

“A letter?” he prods, raising his eyebrows. He looks a bit like he's about to laugh. 

Hermione nods stiffly, folding the parchment and tucking it away into a pocket of her trousers. “Yes,” she says softly, the delight in her face fading. She looks away from him. “From Viktor. He still writes, on occasion.” It isn’t altogether a lie, though when Viktor writes, she no longer writes back. 

Ron continues to watch her, the expression on his face taking on something truly amused. His hand is resting lightly on the fridge door, but it seems he has no intention anymore of retrieving food. 

“Who’s it from, really?” he asks her, gently shutting the refrigerator. She looks up at him, surprised by his forthrightness. 

“Why are you so convinced that I’m lying?” she shoots back. But that giddy, stupid smile is back again, making it marginally difficult to carry on the fib, and Ron notes this with a small nod of his head. 

“Krum could never make you smile like that,” he says simply, pulling out a chair for himself at the dining table. “Not so uncontrollably that you feel like you have to hide it from your best friend.” It’s matter-of-fact, the way he says this, and her thought process stumbles. 

“Isn’t that Harry?” she asks, momentarily tripped up in the act. 

Ron gives her a peculiar look. Then, he cracks into a broad grin. “Well… no,” he says, shaking his head emphatically, “that’s you, Mione. Harry is my…. Something else.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, apple forgotten in his fingers. He doesn’t seem to realize the implications of what he’s just said, so she doesn’t dwell on it. 

He gestures for her to sit at the table across from him, and she obliges, feeling a little out of her element. She hadn't expected this impromptu meeting. He meets her gaze. “C’mon. You’ve taught me more than any professor I’ve ever had. Of course you're my best friend.” He takes up one of her hands in both of his. “And...I’m really glad you moved in,” he says meaningfully. "I've missed you." His freckles are summery bright and his smile even more so. _There he is,_ she thinks, dazed. 

“Me too,” she says, returning his smile, allowing herself this joy.

And then it all flashes through her mind so quickly. Hogwarts before it hurt her, chess games in the darkness of the common room, drinking Firewhisky in the dorms, laughing endlessly with her friends. Ron, and Fred and George, and Harry and Neville and Ginny. It’s delivered to her, all of this, just in the certainty of Ron’s voice. This morsel of an earnest past, still so alive in Ron. She can't imagine anymore just what's gone through her head all these years to keep her so cruelly away from him. 

“So,” Ron says, interrupting her runaway thoughts, and she blinks. “Who’s the letter from, then?”

Her smile fades, again; she can feel her hands already growing clammy and uncomfortable in Ron’s grasp. She decides to say it quickly before she can change her mind, "George," and Ron’s hands go slack. 

“You know where he is?” he asks, pulling his fingers from hers. 

“No,” she says, frowning. “I would’ve told you if I did. As soon as I found out.” Ron visibly relaxes, but he still looks moderately dumbstruck. “He… well, he just wrote back today. After me writing to him for--er, months. Or...thereabouts.”

A look of delight crosses Ron’s face, and though it is somewhat muted, it strikes out her feelings of embarrassment immediately. “So he’s--” He swallows, his eyes darting around her person. “--can I read it?”

He looks suddenly desperate. She hesitates for a moment before ultimately plunging her hand into her pocket and taking out the folded letter. George is his brother, after all; who is she to keep this from him? She hands it to him and he takes it from her with a slightly trembling hand. 

She’s underestimated how acutely this has affected him, George's absence. Now that Ron knows, Molly will surely follow. Or, at the very least, Ginny. And how will they react?

Ron scans the letter, finishes it and hands it back to her with a bit of a grin. “Well, he’s still very fond of you, isn’t he?” he says, and she doesn’t have time to blush before he’s speaking again. “Didn’t know you’d picked up on Harry and I, though…” He blinks quickly, looking away from her. She’d foolishly forgotten about the end of the letter, and now her heart sinks.

“It’s okay,” she says quickly, holding out a hand. 

Ron glances at her, shrugging. “No, you should-- you deserve to know. Obviously.” He swallows, his eyes drifting every so often to the doorway of the kitchen. “I guess it’s… always been going on, really. Only just… became something.” He’s flushed to the tips of his ears. 

“Well, that’s great!” Hermione says encouragingly, and Ron glances at her, looking very nervous. 

“You’re not mad?” he asks. 

Hermione rolls her eyes, all of the tension finally draining from its gargoyle perch on her shoulders. “Why would I be mad, Ronald?”

“Because we kept it from you.”

That hits her in a place that hurts, of course, but she recovers from it instantly. She's used to sidestepping these sorts of covert, unintentional insults. “I don’t mind it, Ron, really,” she says softly. “Falling for someone… it’s a lot to figure out. A lot to process.” 

Ron seems to not altogether agree with this; his mouth has twisted into somewhat of a frown. "We only kept it from you for so long because we thought it might be...er, strange. For you," Ron says slowly. Hermione tilts her head at him, curious; she'd given him the out, and he hadn't taken it, as she thought he would.

"We've been a trio for so long, you know," he continues, not looking at her, "and you've done so much for us both. So much more than we can pay back." Now his eyes find her. "For so long, I think… I think we felt ashamed for being together. Like it was a slap in the face to you." He wrinkles up his brow, and she sees now that his eyes are growing glossy. "So we just didn't mention it. And hid it from you. Found secret places to go. It went too far for us to… to pull it back in."

Hermione watches him speak, not saying anything or moving at all, almost feeling out of her body at the frankness of his confession. Her chest is gripped with gratitude. He's saying sorry.

"Ron--" She reaches out for his hands, and he startles, lets her take them. His eyes are reddened, a little frantic, and Hermione smiles, hoping it looks reassuring. "Thank you. I understand, and I'm not angry with either of you." 

Her words relieve him, and his shoulder slump, his body shedding some of the tension. "Good," he breathes. He pulls his hands away and scrubs at his face. "Merlin, I was such an unbearable _arse_ , wasn't I?" he mutters to her, and she lets out a laugh. 

"Only a little," she says softly, still watching him. 

He leans his elbows against the table. "I'm sorry for it, Mione. Really. And I'm sorry I'm only apologizing now, like this." He gestures around them at the quiet, messy kitchen.

Hermione smiles fondly at him. "I'm just glad you did it at all, Ron," she says gently. "And I'm glad for you and Harry, too. Does anyone else know?"

Ron shakes his head. "No one besides you and, I guess, George. And probably Fred, too, the mischievous git." He makes a vague gesture toward the ceiling and Hermione snorts. "Always spying in life, must still be doing it in death." Ron rolls his eyes, but he's smiling again. "Anyway. I should get to my errands, leave you to your love letters…" His smile turns into a smirk, and she scoffs at him. 

" _Please,_ " she says, indignant, but he shakes his head at her and rises from the table.

"Tell him I say hi, at least, alright?" he says to her, before departing with a grin, leaving her to sit momentarily in confused silence. 

What a bizarre and emotionally charged start to the morning. There's a whirlwind of new knowledge and feelings swirling about inside of Hermione, and she doesn't quite know what to do with any of it. Instead, she unfolds the letter again and flattens it down against the table. It’s inevitable that she will read it over and over, noting each individual curve and scribbled-out mistake. She hopes that maybe George has done the same for her.

* * *

_July 29 2002_

_George,_

_Here are my two guesses this time around: Ireland and cranberry. Let me know._

_I’m pleased to see that you’re still alive. How are you faring? And where is my longer follow-up letter from you?_

_Waiting impatiently,_

_Hermione_

This time, it doesn't take long for him to reply:

_July 30 2002_

_Hermione,_

_Now that I’ve written back to you, I see you’ve gotten me on a strict schedule of response. I expected nothing less from the smartest witch of blah blah yada yada yada. I’m faring just fine-- how are you, in your new abode?_

_Where do I start, then? I’m afraid my hand will cramp up after one paragraph. Bit daunting._

_First of all: of course I remember washing dishes with you. I’m pleased you enjoyed it so much, given that I thought it was supposed to be a rather undesired household chore for Muggles. (And--for what it’s worth--I didn’t know I was leaving, I don't think. It was just nice to see you happy.)_

_Second: no, not Ireland, though you’re making me a bit regretful that I didn’t choose that as my destination. More redheads like me, there, probably--but in the end, wouldn’t that have been more competition?_

_Maybe my choice is a bit more close to home than you think. Oh, not cranberry either-- though you’re getting there._

_Ah! This feels like an old-fashioned riddle or something. A treasure hunt, but at the end it’s just me standing there with--er, what is it you like again? Books? Ah, yes, of course, I’ll be holding a book. Just tell me which one you like best, and I'll be there. With, you know, the book._

_Anyway, I’m still in England. My sights were not set very far off, I’m afraid. If you poke around a bit outside of Diagon Alley, I’m sure you’ll spot me. Think 3 to 4 hours out, I guess. It's close, but still pretty hidden. I couldn't bear being far, it felt... odd, to do it without Fred. And, hey, you have to admit that it's a fair bit unexpected, right? (Right???)_

_Before I end this letter, I do want to say sorry. For not saying goodbye, for leaving you there alone like that. It was agonizing to be in that house without Fred, even if I wasn’t staying in the same room; I had to leave. But_ _as soon as I was gone, I wanted to turn around and come right back. If only for you._

_George_

  
  


She reads it over and over. _If only for you_. And then she realizes what else he’s said. “A bit outside of Diagon Alley”; "still pretty hidden". 

Nothing she can't find.

* * *

Harry and Ron are both sitting together on the couch when Hermione bounds down the stairs with her raincoat halfway on, the rest of it trailing haphazardly behind her like a trashbag. She's excited in a way that she hasn’t felt since being a teenager. She hasn’t run for something like this in years. 

“I’ll be back,” she says to the two of them, breathlessly, “Diagon. Later.” 

"What in the _hell_ \--" Ron glances to Harry, who shrugs. They watch, stricken and wordless, as she ducks out the door, into the rain and the rapidly fading sun. 


	4. (nice dream)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took me so long~! i went back to the third chapter and changed the distance from 30-40 min to 3-4 hours because it worked better for the story!!! you'll seeeee~ keep that in mind!! ;w; this is longer and i wrote it in a nite and might edit it a wittle bit tomorrow when i'm less sleepy but AH hope u all enjoy ;;;; more to come still

She runs without direction. The rain batters at her face, but she charges, Apparates, and continues on. Pushing, pushing. 

She stops at the twins' old shop, her eyes scanning the windows. Shuttered, dark. She glances around in the rainy gloom, but finds only a few wandering people. It's easy for her to slip in without being seen. 

Everything inside is covered in a thick layer of dust. Without thinking, she waves her wand, whisking it away. She can't bear to see it so bleak in here, so lonely. The decorations are still up, garlands and posters, but they're all discolored, sapped completely of their magic. The last time she was here was during school. It startles her to realize this.

"Focus," she says aloud, shocking herself. She lets out a breath and marches onward, toward the back office. Maybe he's hidden some sort of clue here, or left something behind. 

It's a mess back here. Upturned boxes, tossed books, smears of what looks like orange paint splattered against the walls and floors. A trail of broken glass leads to a photo frame, facedown on the floor. She doesn't crouch to lift it up; she knows what it must be, and she doesn't want to see it either. 

She moves on to the desk in the corner, stacked high with junk and rotten product and advertisement fliers. The top drawer is locked.

" _Alohamora_ ," she whispers, and the lock pops. She pulls it gently open and peers inside. 

Quills, pots of ink, more junk-- and a folded up bit of parchment shoved near the back corner. She reaches for it, and warmth spreads through her body. She knows somehow that it's for her. 

Inside is a familiar handwriting, but it's scrawled and sort of... younger, almost, half-formed. Her name is at the top, various openings scribbled out before the final untouched _Greetings, Hermione_ he'd settled with. She searches for the date of the letter amidst all of the scratched out words and doodles, and finds it at the bottom, just below George's signature: December 2nd, 1994. 

The month of the Yule Ball.

Hermione is caught momentarily uncertain, but she decides to read the letter anyway, despite its lack of relevance. 

~~_Hermione,_ ~~

~~_Dear Hermione,_ ~~

~~_Mione! Hey,_ ~~

_Greetings, Hermione,_

_I'm writing you this letter only because everyone else is writing letters for this ~~for some reason~~. I don't make a habit of being ~~litterite~~ literate (see?), so don't expect anything massively impressive here, alright?_

_I wanted to ask you to the Ball. You know, as a friend. Ron's been such an oaf around those Veela, and I doubt Harry's going to give up on Cho until it's too late. So, seems to me I'm your best ~~choice~~_ _fallback. Snag yourself a dance partner and not have to worry about it for the rest of the month, eh?_

_Fred thinks I should give you flowers ~~but I didn't think you'd like that~~ but I've enclosed a rare Chocolate Frog trading card instead. Ignotus Peverell, if you'll believe it. An incredible trade off for a date to the Ball with one of the finest Weasley brothers, I would say. _

_Reply no sooner than 8 P.M. tonight, Granger. I will be waiting to receive it near the statue of Gregory the Smarmy. I trust you know where he resides._

_-George Weasley_

She finishes the letter, returning once more to the present. It feels a bit like she's traveled back in time for a moment, caught up in names and events and petty worries. She finds herself smiling, her eyes flitting all about the parchment. Why did he never give this to her?

"And where's that pesky trading card?" she wonders aloud, leaning down to get another look into the desk drawer. She sifts around and finds nothing hexagonal or flashy, so she shuts the drawer and pockets the letter. She'll bring it up to George when she finds him-- they'll have a laugh. 

Her search continues to the supply closet, its door hanging limply on one hinge. Stacks of parchments and fliers sit in one corner, while the rest is a mess of product boxes, labeled potions, and baskets of spoiled ingredients. She's almost resigned herself to finding nothing, when she spots a book facedown on the floor. _Tales of Beedle the Bard_. An older edition, one she hasn't seen before. She sits down on the cold floor and lifts the book; something falls out, clattering. 

A trading card. She lifts it up into the light, and there he is: Ignotus Peverell, grinning back at her. He's half under his Invisibility Cloak, ducking about and making theatrical faces. She flips it over to read the information on the other side. 

_Ignotus Peverell is most known for being the third and youngest brother of those mentioned in_ The Tales of Beedle the Bard _. Described as the wisest of the Peverell brothers, he outsmarted Death by hiding beneath his Invisibility Cloak. His cunning earned him a long life; he died in his birthplace, Godric's Hallow, at the age of 76._

It strikes her, Godric's Hollow; she remembers running across Ignotus's grave with Harry. Surely, though, George wouldn't go somewhere so obvious? 

But it's her only clue. She sets off.

* * *

It's easy to Apparate there, but less so to navigate the houses. This is all she has to work with, the birthplace of some long-dead fairytale wizard. Still hidden, he'd said. So he wouldn't be anywhere blatant.

She figures she can find the cemetery, then go from there. Not that she altogether expects him to be camped out in some mausoleum, but it's a familiar starting point, at least. She continues through the town, walking purposefully down the sidewalks. It's foggy out, and cold. She hopes that wherever George is, it's warm. 

She can see the memorial of Harry's family appearing through the fog, and a rush of relief goes through her. She was afraid she'd been gone so long from all the places she used to know, that she'd forget how to navigate, but she remembers everything now. The cemetery is just north. 

As she walks, she finds that there are a few people out. None of them seem to acknowledge her past the usual unfamiliar wave and smile, and she is thankful. For once she can just _be_ , without being ogled at or bothered. And in a part of her own magical world, too, a peaceful intersection between Muggles and wizards. She wonders if she should reasonably be here without Harry-- it feels wrong, almost, that he doesn't know. But her quest isn't to dig up the past for other people. She's only running after a silhouette of her _own_ past, something she feels she must do by herself.

* * *

The cemetery turns up nothing of interest. She stops by Harry's parents' graves and freshens up the flowers, doesn't disturb the gifts; she hesitates by Ignotus's grave, before leaving two yellow roses. From her and from George. 

The wind is picking up, chillier. She swears she can hear music, faint and tinkling, but when she stops to listen, she hears nothing but the whistling breeze. _Strange_ , she thinks. But it isn't strange at all. It's exactly what she's expected.

A game. 

She turns, glancing cautiously into the tree line of the forest that lies west. There is a pull in this direction that doesn't come from any other, a distinct, prickly feeling in her chest. Magic. 

She takes a step forward, and then another. The music flares back, briefly audible, bright and funky and full of piano, and then it is gone from her. 

She runs to follow it.

* * *

It's dark. The trees shade her from the creeping moonlight. The music has been fading in and out consistently the farther she moves into the forest. Her heart is beating fast. She doesn't know what any of this means; it feels like a fool's errand, like a girl driven so mad by loneliness she's made up a game of cat and mouse to appease her own delusions. But she chooses to ignore this, because it feels good to chase something again, to care so deeply about someone else that she's following clues and mysterious music into the trees to find them. 

Soon, she comes upon a small pond. It stretches either side into a creek that she can't see the end of. The music pulsates here, not quite going away this time. It hums in the back of her head, then rises enough that it feels like it's coming from just beside her. She turns. 

A cabin. She swears it wasn't there before-- she would've seen it. She's on the hunt for this particular sort of thing, isn't she? 

She hesitates. Old anxieties wind themselves familiarly into her flesh. She can feels her scars heavy against her skin again. Perhaps she should just go home. Play it safe. Carry on. 

The door cracks open, almost imperceptibly. She stands there, frozen, watching for movement. And then, finally, she approaches. 

It's not only music, now, but a scent. Fresh-peeled oranges and bonfire and carved wood. 

She peeks into the cabin through the ajar door. It's soaked in warmth and candlelight and the crackle of fire. She swallows, and steps in. 

Instantly, she is overcome with familiarity. She blinks; dazed, marvelously dazed. 

"Where are you?" she murmurs, her eyes scanning the cabin. He's not in the kitchen, the living room, he isn't by the door. There's a corridor at the other end of the house that stretches back where she can't see. 

She holds onto her scarf nervously, not knowing quite how to proceed. The music has ceased, the scent from before masked by the cabin's own unique aroma. Is he here at all? Or has she somehow missed him?

Suddenly, there's a sound of hammering from down the hall. She frowns, creeping further into the house. There's a cough, and she pauses, listening. 

"Get in here, already, Mione. You're letting the cold in."

She blinks. With one motion, she turns and waves her wand at the door. It shuts tightly. She turns back around and braces herself. The hammering continues. She follows it like the music to a room at the end of the hall. When she peeks in, there he is. That easy. 

He's standing on top of a desk, a hammer in one hand and a photo in another. It seems that he's putting up posters--non-moving Muggle posters--using a Muggle method. He turns and she sees that he's holding the nails in his mouth, too. The poster drops from his grip, and he smiles blindingly. The nails tumble from his lips to the floor, too, but he doesn't notice, or perhaps doesn't care. He hops down from his perch.

"You made it!" he says brightly to her. 

Tears are already in her eyes, and she feels silly for it. "George?" she whispers, though she knows without a doubt that this is him. She followed his music here, to this secret place that appears and disappears at will. She swallows, hard. 

His smile fades, slightly, and he comes toward her. "Hermione," he says softly. He reaches a hand out for her, but she collides into him wholly instead, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his thick flannel shirt. Oranges, bonfire, wood. She lets out a breath that feels like it's been held inside of her for years and years. He envelopes her, holding her tightly to him, and he rests his chin atop her head. 

"You've come a long way," he says eventually. He pulls away from her and she blinks tiredly up at him. 

"I suppose I have," she says, her voice quiet and slightly meek. 

His hand finds her neck, then, winds easily into her hair. His touch steadies her. He's looking at her like no one else has looked at her, and she's overwhelmed, suddenly, by everything she's been ignoring up until now, by how far she's moved and how little she's actually thought about it. She takes a step back from him, and his arm drops back to his side. 

"I can make you some tea?" he offers, recovering deftly, his smile returning, and she feels a pang of deep fondness for him. 

"Please," she says, smiling back. "That would be lovely."

* * *

As he's off in the kitchen preparing her tea, she sheds her coat and scarf and sets them down on a nearby armchair. She's gazing up at his posters when he returns with two steaming cups. He regards her from the doorway. 

"Snagged them from a charity shop," he says, answering her unspoken question. She turns to look at him, and as if her gaze is vital for it, his smile is back again. "You know any of them?"

She glances back at the wall. The Beatles, Blur, Radiohead. Music. She nods.

He steps into the room, hands her her tea. She takes a long sip, relishing the warmth. They stand together, staring up at the posters. "Have you listened to any of them yet?" she asks, turning back to him. 

"All of them. You'd be proud of me," he says. "I've even got a record player."

"You do?" she confirms, laughing. "Show me, then. It seems you might know more about Muggles than I do."

"Impossible," he says immediately, dismissively, and her face grows warm. 

He ends up leading her to another room entirely, across the hall. It's clearly his bedroom. There's a dresser in the corner, clothes strewn about and spilling out of the drawers. An unmade bed in the opposite corner. And there, by the window, is an old gramophone record player. The horn is colored a light green, and she wonders if that was a personal addition of his. 

"It's beautiful," she says, crossing the room. She runs her fingers lightly along the lacquered wood base, peers into the horn, inspects the buttons. An excellent vintage. What luck that surrounds him. She'd expect nothing less. "I'm impressed." She turns, grinning, to find him watching her, a warm, distant smile on his face. 

"Really?" he rebuts, kicking off the doorframe. "Hermione Granger impressed with George Weasley. A younger you would've been laughing your arse off."

She shrugs. "Maybe," she says, looking away. "Maybe not."

"Do you... want to listen to something?" She glances back at him, caught off-guard. She'd been expecting him to shepherd her off into a guest room. It was a bit late, after all.

"Sure." She steps back from the player, watches him as he hunkers down to dig in a crate beside it. He looks tired, too. She wonders how he's been surviving this way, isolated as he is. 

"Ah," he whispers, pulling a record out of the crate and holding it up for her to see. Radiohead's _The Bends._ "One of my favorites." He stands, delicately pulls the vinyl from its sleeve. The process seems ritualistic in how careful it is, how meticulous of a process. He sets the disc on the spindle and reaches for the needle. 

The first song rises up into the room. It starts slow and then it slams into her. George sits down on the floor, his legs tucked beneath him, and she follows suit. The music fills the room, fills them both up. They exist together here separate from the rest of the world. She reaches out for him, and he slides his hand into hers like he'd been expecting it, lacing their fingers together. 

"This feels like a dream," she says just as the second song hits, and her voice comes out choked. She looks to him for an argument. 

"I know." He's staring at her, his eyes all soft. "You ought to get to bed," he says quietly. 

"I don't want to," she says, staring right back at him. 

So they sit and listen together to the music, hands still intertwined. Eventually, Hermione closes her eyes. 

* * *

She's shaken, half-awake. It's dark in the room, now, and the record's finished. George's hand is on her arm, lifting her. 

"Bedtime," he says, helping her to stand. He's guiding her out of the room, she realizes, and she shakes her head, bleary eyes struggling to keep open. One hand finds his shirt and holds onto it. He stops moving. "What's wrong?"

"Here," she whispers. She reaches up a blind hand to his face, slides it round his neck. She blinks, manages to finally meet his gaze. "I don't sleep well, usually. I don't think I..."

"You can sleep in here, then," he says gently. "Whatever you need." There's so much patience in his voice. He guides her back across the room and onto the bed. "Do you want me to--?"

"Of course I do," Hermione says, looking up at him, for a moment the clarity of the situation unfolding in front of her. He hesitates, standing there. He watches her crawl beneath the covers, situate herself against the wall. "What?" she asks when he doesn't follow suit, awake enough now to be impatient with him. 

"I just--" he stops, lets out a breath. "It's hard to believe you're here at all, Hermione." He looks dazed in the moonlight. 

She sits up in bed, reaches out a hand to pull him in, and he lets her. They meet together, both kneeling on the bed facing one another. 

"I'm here, George," she says. She touches his cheek. "I promise."

His hand has found her waist, though she doesn't know when it got there. He swallows. "Thank Merlin for that, then," he whispers, a nervous sort of chuckle escaping his lips. 

There is a moment where neither of them moves, frozen together in time. And the music that guided her here, it's swimming about in her head again. It's loud.

"I missed you, George," she breathes without meaning to, "so very much."

He kisses her then, right as the words come out of her mouth, and she kisses back. It's hard to believe it's taken this long. They move together, slowly, the warmth that radiates between them brighter now than ever. He pulls away briefly, enough to look at her, just for this moment, and she stares back at him. 

"I must've missed you more, Mione," he mutters, searching her eyes. "There's so much that's gone. So many bits and pieces I've lost." He moves her hair away from her face, the brush of his fingertips electric as they flutter down to her jaw. "And then here you are," he whispers. "You've found me."

"I don't know how," she says, breathless. "I heard..." She hesitates. "I heard music. And I followed it."

He tilts his head at her, his somber expression turning a bit amused. "Music?" he repeats. They're still so close to one another. She nods. 

"Music. And it sounded just like you."

"Tell me about it," he says, smiling now. "What do you hear, when you listen to me?"

Her heart begins once more to hammer against her ribcage. "It's... hard for me to describe." She looks away from him for the first time, her mind searching for adequate words. "Piano, that's the first thing... it's soft, slow. Weaving everything else together." He's watching her raptly now, and she can't tell what he's thinking. "It was almost like a lullaby, you know... something to put you to sleep." She feels shy, like she's revealing an embarrassing secret. "I think there was a flute," she murmurs. 

George nods solemnly. "Absolutely there was a flute," he says, grinning at her. "You've got it all sorted, haven't you?" His hand feels hot against her neck. 

"No," she answers, "not in the least." 

And because she is tired and flushed and just oh so _fed up_ with depraving herself of anything at all but especially this, she kisses him. Again and again and again. 


End file.
